Abyssus Abyssum Invocat
by Neko-chan -Silvered Tongue
Summary: These are the ten contracts that remade the world but not Sebastian, and the one contract that finally did.
1. The Abyss

_Title:_ Abyssus Abyssum Invocat

_Author:_ Neko-chan

_Fandom:_ Kuroshitsuji

_Rating:_ T

_Pairings:_ none, but hints towards eventual Sebastian/Ciel

_Summary:_ These are the ten contracts that remade the world but not Sebastian, and the one contract that finally did.

_Author's Note:_ mhikaru is a _jewel_. :D I don't feel motivated to study for midterms (I am _such_ a model student, srsly) and she gives me a prompt so that I can procrastinate further. That's what a true BFF is all about~ -hearts- The prompt that she gave me deals with the exploration of ten of Sebastian's contracts before he came in contact with Ciel. Because I'm lazy, I'm writing this as a side story to our co-authored "Libera Nos A Malo." You _don't_ have to read the story to understand this one—but if you end up liking this and go on to read "Libera Nos A Malo," then we'll both be _ecstatic_~~ :3 The title of this particular story is Latin and translates loosely to "Hell calls Hell."

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**Abyssus Abyssum Invocat**

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"_God made everything out of nothing, but the nothingness shows through.__"_  
Paul Valery

**I.**

The man sat alone, silhouette stark against the pre-dawn light as he stared out over the field. Yesterday had been the first celebration that he, his brother, and their parents had given in honor to Yahweh, and he had spent all last growing season in anticipation. The farmer had offered up the best of his crop, the sweet fruit of his hard labor. His father had been condemned to toil away hours and days to coax living things from the soil, and he had followed in his footsteps: days, weeks, months he had worked and worked hard to offer up his bounty to Yahweh. But his crops had been disdained in favor of his little brother's lambs, the newborn creatures slaughtered upon their family altar.

His head bowed and the man's hands came up to press his face against the rough calluses of his work-worn fingers. He was a broken man: offering up the best that he had and being scorned for that offering. What more could he do…? Nothing. Nothing at all.

And so he despaired.

There was a deep-seated ache within his chest at the knowledge that his God had rejected him, put him aside to watch from the sidelines as the favored younger brother was loved and adored for napping while he should have been watching over the family's flock. They had already lost four ewes to wolves the past winter, and he could only imagine just how many more they would lose this coming one from his brother's carelessness. Starving and with very little food, they would all turn to the crops that he had harvested from the earth—the crops that Yahweh had refused to accept.

"I have nothing else to give," the man whispered, wishing oh-so desperately that things were different: that he had been welcomed by the one most loved, had softly smiling lips pressed to his own forehead. But that had not happened and the resonating sense of complete and utter _loss_ overtook him. This was a denial of something so particularly striking that he knew he would never have.

"Come and make a contract with me, and perhaps we may change that."

The voice had come as a surprise, and the man stiffened before jerking his head upwards; his gaze met that of a beautiful creature, pupils narrow and striking, much like a great cat's, and glowing with a muted umber light in the last remnants of the night. It smiled at him, and the man couldn't stop the quiet shiver of foreboding that prickled down his spine and raised the small hairs at the base of his neck. But that smile… oh, how it _called_ to him. And he succumbed to that sultry welcome with only a slight hesitation, expression yearning for that divine type of love that he knew he would always be denied. Here, though: here was a chance for that sweet touch of heaven.

"Yes," the man answered simply, and Cain reached out to clasp the devil's hand.

**II.**

The child sat beside the mummy of his father, knees pressed snugly to his fragile chest with arms wrapped tight about his shins: his father had been an interesting man while alive, and the boy knew that he was expected to carry on the legacy that the other had started. And yet… he was still so young and so very, very afraid of the responsibilities that would be falling upon his hunched shoulders the moment that he stepped out of the tomb. He had been groomed for this role since birth, had been taught by his mother-aunt and had been told over and over again by his father-uncle to always, _always_ keep his head held high.

But the fear was suffocating.

"Why did you have to leave me so soon, Akhenaten? I am not ready for this… Father." The words were spoken with true anguish, and the boy's voice was scarcely louder than a hoarse, choked-back murmur. His gesture was tentative, but the boy still reached out and pressed the palm of a hand over the dead man's chest—hoping, perhaps, that he might actually feel a heart beating, praying to his father's One-God to bring him back to life so that the boy would not have to do this alone.

There was no answer, however, and the man remained dead.

The tomb was silent, and the boy's hold around his legs tightened further as he huddled in on himself; though hope was dwindling, he still wished so desperately that there would be a guiding hand that would show him what to do. His father's advisors were untrustworthy, and even Smenkhkare, his uncle, could not be taken into confidence. He could not go to Nefertiti, either, for she held control—for now—as regent and should he make one misstep, the boy knew that his stepmother would hold no mercy for him. It was the way of their family. It was the way of the court. But, oh, how incredibly lonely that made him.

A great responsibility had fallen to him, and the boy did not know if he was strong enough to carry the burden on his shoulders, especially not while there were advisors who currently held much more power than he had in his own slim hands.

"Please. Someone help me," the child whispered huskily, curling his svelte fingers in towards his palms, clenching his hands into desperate fists. "Please."

"I will help you, little one. For a price."

The boy gasped, the only sound in the sudden silence of his father's tomb: he looked up with wide, dark eyes to meet a gaze that shimmered like the heart of a flame. The pupils were narrow, a black abyss that called to something deeply buried within the boy. He trembled, reaching out towards the man to lightly caress his fingertips over the ivory skin at the back of the man's hand.

"Are you Agathodemon?" the child asked, voice hushed with awe. The man's—creature's?—skin felt silky and inexpressibly smooth, sleek against his own skin, much like the Egyptian cotton that his maids wove for him during the hot summer months… but obviously worth so very much more. Idly, his fingertips trailed down a finger to rest over the top of one black claw.

"Oh, no, little one. I am much, much better."

The words stirred within the boy's chest, and he slowly shifted away from his father's mummy as his gaze never left the other's. Closer and closer still, the boy stepped—drawn in by that enigmatic smile, lips parting as the creature gave a quiet, pleased chuckle at seeing the child's blatant fascination. Eventually, though, the boy spoke: "…what price is it that I must pay?"

Pleased that humanity seemed to have developed some sense of wariness—the concept that nothing was ever truly free and that one must always, _always_ ask the terms of the bargain before agreement—it was an evolution in the social consciousness that the devil hadn't yet expected but was pleasantly surprised by.

Lightly, the creature reached out and tilted the child's face upwards with one finger to admire the regal features, the high cheekbones and the full curve of the mouth, that he had inherited from his father. There was so much potential there, and the devil fully expected to mold this boy to meet the requirements that he needed. To think that this boy would eradicate so many things that his father had strived to build—to once more let heathen religion spread across Upper and Lower Egypt… ah, it would soon enough be a glorious time.

"You will be one of the greatest Pharaohs that Egypt has ever seen, and your name will be forever remembered even after your body has withered into so much dust. But the price is your Ka, Tutankhamun."

The boy shuddered in sudden, abject terror as he continued to meet the creature's eyes, his voice barely audible as he spoke in an attempt to buy himself more time to come to an adequate decision. "My name is Tutankhaten."

A low, sultry chuckle was the child-Pharaoh's answer:

"Ah~ Not for much longer."

**III.**

"Your people spit in scorn when your name is spoken of in the streets," the dark-haired creature murmured as he stepped up behind Qin Shi Huangdi to drape his arms leisurely over the broad shoulders of the Chinese emperor, body snugly flush against the ornate brocade and expensive silks of the human's clothing. "They speak of how you uselessly use your artists to build your terracotta army, how you have buried so many families beneath your Great Wall, how you have entombed such a _very_ large number of the greatest scholars of this time, how your men and women never returned from Zhifu Island—and how this is all a conspiracy so that you could cling to your reign for as long as possible. How, too, you are not Zhuangxiang of Qin's legitimate son."

The devil chuckled quietly, dipping his head to murmur sibilant words against the tense mortal's ear, letting his lips brush here and there to tease and taunt for the fleeting looks that Qin Shi Huangdi occasionally gave to him out of the corner of the other's eyes. "Your people bow and belittle themselves before you, and yet they have you once your gaze has been averted. Such a poor, pitiful fate you have, Qin Shi Huangdi, the First Emperor of China~"

With a shrug of his shoulders, the royal man dislodged the creature from its position so that he could step forward and brace his hands against the edge of the balcony to look out over his collection of artisans that had dedicated themselves to building him his terracotta army, the prefecture of Shaqiu stretching out as far as the eye could see. "Be silent, Mówáng, or leave."

A quiet 'tsk' slipped through the humid air of the palace, and the creature shifted to step around the emperor, easing himself up onto the granite wall at the edge of the balcony. The devil's mouth curved into a perfectly sinful smile and the creature's ebony eyebrow quirked as Qin Shi Huangdi tried his best to ignore the seductive man before him. "Ah… So I would assume, then, that you no longer wish to hear news of what it is that you have been seeking? Or the item itself?"

Qin Shi Huangdi's eyes widened, almost impossibly so, and he immediately gave the devil his full attention—the gesture of which sparked a note of sadistic that lingered deliciously within the demon's belly. "You have found the elixir?" the emperor breathed, voice reverent as he stepped close and closer still, hands scrabbling desperately at the air, wanting what it was that the demon had so incredibly much. "You have it? Give it to me! Give it to me _now_!"

"…if that is your wish…"

Smile coy, the devil offered up a small satchel that the emperor immediately clutched at, fingers tight and greedy around the black bag. The human trembled with intense emotion, jerking at the silken ties that kept the bag's opening shut, tossing away the cords to quickly gulp down the contents hidden within.

It was then that the pain began.

"Oh… _oh_!" Qin Shi Huangdi gasped as his knees gave out, hand clutched over his chest as his heart raced out of control. The demon watched as the man's skin began to shed, a flush rising to fill out the apples of the Chinese emperor's cheeks—with the sweat, which could have easily been explained away by the heat caused by the sun, the ruddy face made it appear as if Qin Shi Huangdi had just imbibed a little too much alcohol. "M-Make it stop…! I don't wish to die! _I don't want to die, Mówáng!_"

The demon's smile deepened even further, and he tilted his head back to look up into the sky and the sun that traveled towards the West. As the emperor finally had no other choice but to release his now-tenuous hold on life, the wicked creature idly toed the human's body over so that corpse was resting on its back.

"You are less than the dirt of the earth," he said, tone jovial as the demon slid off of the balcony's edge and began to walk away from the now-dead First Emperor of China. His boots tap-tap-tapped as he made his way across the open expanse, heading towards the doorway that led into the inner rooms of the provincial palace. "There is no such thing as 'immortality' for vermin such as you."

**IV.**

The thirty pieces of silver gleamed in the red-gold light of sunset, and the bribe that he had taken—the price of a kiss—transmuted darkly into the gradient shades of blood. How apt, the one-time Apostle thought, closing his eyes to the evidence of his betrayal as he allowed the money to sift through his fingers to fall to the dirt beneath his feet. The metal pieces click and clinked against one another, each vying for attention: a physical representation of the greed that had made Judas succumb.

"Come, come now," the devil murmured playfully as he circled around the despairing man, lips curved in delight at the taste of horror and desperation that lingered sweetly on the tip of his tongue. "You wished for worldly riches—money enough to buy the things that you had always wanted but could never have. You have that money now. You wished, too—and such a greedy master you are, truly—for the people of Israel to rise up against a common foe. To band together and make one conscious, united decision that the Romans could not fight against. And this wish was granted to you, as well." The creature chortled to himself at that, obsidian-tinted talons trailing lightly over Judas' chest. "They did band together, you know—to kill the one that you loved the most."

"Stop. No more," the broken man begged quietly, tear tracks making their way through the dust and sweat that coated his face, cleaning his sin with the sense of true loss. He stepped over the pile of money, leaving it behind as he stumbled down the road. His movements were shaky, awkward in his shock; he knew, as well, that the other eleven disciples would soon enough come for him, Jesus' betrayer. They would kill him just as thoroughly as he had killed their Messiah.

The pieces of silver had come at too dear a cost, and that realization came at too late of a time; Judas knew that nothing could be done, that his lord and lover, his best and only friend, would now be carrying the cross that would be used for his crucifixion through the streets. The crowds would jeer, thirsty for more blood: it would be a horrifying time for Jesus, humiliating from what would have been done to him: and Judas had been the one to condemn him to it.

With a kiss.

He moaned, sprawling by the side of the road as he became violently sick. He vomited up the last supper that he had had with the other man, chest heaving as sobs, too, forced their way out of the tight, compressed knot of hurtpainloss_anguish_ that burrowed deeper in the place where his heart should have been.

"Forgive me! Oh, Yahweh—forgive me my transgressions!" the confidant of Jesus cried, staggering back to his feet as he made his way further into the woods, bits of dead and dying scrub scratching his skin and clinging hungrily to the roughly spun cloth of his clothing. "Forgive me! Forgive me, Jesus!"

The demon watched as he leaned against a boulder as the one-time disciple hung himself from the branch of a tree, body swaying in the slight wind that wound its way through the vegetative cover. It hadn't been a pleasant form of execution: the human had judged the distance and his own weight incorrectly, and instead of dying from a clean break of his neck, Judas was now slowly strangling to death. Wiping the dirt from the shine of the leather of his pants, the devil made his way towards Jesus' betrayer, movements predatory as he watched the man suffocate.

"There is no salvation for those who have sinned directly against God," the devil informed Judas, smiling wide enough to reveal the delicate points of his canines as the human's eyes widened in horror. "I should know."

Gesture indolent, the devil punched a hand through the betrayer's chest to rip out the still-beating heart, watching the blood trickle through the white of his fingers, pattering on the ground at his booted feet. He tightened his hold on the organ, and it burst with a spray of blood to cover both corpse and demon with the glorious scent of Hell. Licking his lips free of blood, the devil's fingers continued to clench, watching with twisted adoration as the heart ripped to shreds within his grasp.

It wasn't as if Judas would be needing it, after all.

**V.**

The city burned.

And as the city burned, its Emperor watched as the pride of lions lunged forward, batting at the cowering Christians as the woman and her child huddled together. The Coliseum's rose up all around Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus, the stonework throwing off shadows that stretched towards the Games' most recent victims—reaching out as if to swallow the Christians whole before the lions could have the chance to move in for the kill. Nero shivered in delight, leaning forward to watch the proceedings with eyes that hid the taint of madness.

"See how they cry out for a God that does not answer them," the demon seated on the armrest of his chair purred out silkily, reaching up to almost affectionately trail his fingers through the tight curls of Nero's hair—the gesture echoing the attention that the Roman Emperor gave to the dog seated at his own feet. "See how they weep, how they beg for a mercy that will never come for them. So deluded they are, their belief shaky at best as they wait for a salvation that will forever be denied to them."

The demon's eyes glowed with Hellfire, the burning sharp as the power hidden within his aristocratic body flared and pulsed over and over again as the lions finally began to feast upon their prey, the screams of the unlucky believers echoing up and rebounding over and over again off of the stone walls of Rome's most prized possession.

The emperor called for another—and another yet—watching with an ecstatic expression as human after human, man, woman, and child all, were dragged out onto the playing field—breath bated as each person succumbed to the lions' hunger. He had been purposefully starving the creatures for weeks, and now that prey was at hand, the animals gorged themselves.

The Christians fell at his hand, just as the Jews fell at his soldiers' hands in the war that he had begun: only right for these people to die for the foolishness of their beliefs. To deny that Jupiter was the Father of all, that Juno stayed by his side to help guide him with her womanly compassion? To deny that from Minerva all wisdom came and that it was Venus' breast that inspired mortal men to love? The refusal to acknowledge the true state of things had kindled the flame of fury within Nero's heart—and it was at this creature's encouragement that he had begun his war, eradicating the world of those people who could never see the truth for what it was.

Rome was might, Rome was ever-lasting, Rome had _become_ the world.

_Veni, vidi, vici._

The blasphemers and heretics would soon enough see the error of their ways, and they would see, too, that Rome's loving embrace would ensnare all—engulfing all other nations within her voluptuous body. There was no escape: They all would soon enough come to realize this.

"Again! Again!" the emperor roared, eyes sparking with his intent; he stood from his chair, leaning over the edge of his dais to watch his loyal soldiers pound their fists to their chests, the metal of their armor rattling with each movement, and then proceeded to duck into the catacombs to drag out more victims for Nero's Games. His hands tightened over the top of the banister, breath hitching in anticipation, and the demon watched with indolent amusement as the man's knuckles whitened in barely-restrained lust for blood. The tension was almost sexual in its bittersweet taste. "Release them all to the lions!"

And the city of Rome burned.

**VI.**

The battle at Mynydd Baddon had been the bloodiest that Emrys Wledig had ever lived through, but the Anglo-Saxons had been pushed back into Essex and Aelle himself had fallen beneath his sword. It had been a victory but, as most victories these past few years, it had come at a price—and the price was getting steeper with each battleground.

The grizzled man made his way through the fields, stepping around the bodies of his comrades and enemies both; it had been a particularly hot day and Emrys wiped the sweat from his forehead with his forearm, wincing at the pain when he came in contact with the wound from the arrow that had clipped him early on in the fight.

"Damn and blast," the weary captain muttered as the scratch once more began to bleed. At least it had clotted during the melee—there would have been no way that the soldier could have afforded being blinded by the blood. It would have cost him his life, Emrys knew; it was pure luck, as well, that he had lived thus far.

One day, however, the Anglo-Saxons would press through the guarded borders and end up overtaking the Britons' remaining amount of land. If things didn't change—and change soon—he and his people would lose. And then there would be nothing left for them to claim, to call home.

Shaking his head at the depressing thoughts, Emrys made his way up the trail towards Liddington Castle and the camp that he and his men had made beneath its stone walls. The healers would be there, and the warrior knew that—at the very least—he would have to allow the men and women to at least clean and find it so that the wound wouldn't fester with rot. It was tempting, though, to just leave it as-is and let the rest be damned. It was getting harder and harder to care.

"Such dark thoughts this particular leader of man possesses," came a richly bemused voice from the shadows; Emrys jerked in surprise, body instinctively dropping down into a defensive position as his sword was once more drawn. The reaction made the owner of the voice laugh, openly entertained by the mortal's antics. It took just a moment longer before a man stepped out from beneath the shade of the trees: young and beautiful, he watched Emrys from beneath thick lashes and with eyes that were far too cynical and _knowing_ to ever be considered human.

As if reading Emrys' mind—perhaps not such a far-fetched idea considering those _eyes_—the dark-haired man smiled slowly and tilted his head to the side in a gesture that was bird-like, completely bestial and without a trace of humanity within it. "Ah, how incredibly right you are," the man purred and began to step closer and closer still, movements languid and unhurried.

Emrys tensed, gaze tracking every minute movement: on edge and realizing on an instinctive level that a choice between life and death would soon enough be presented to him. "What is it that you want, Sidhe?"

Another laugh at that, and another smile, this one quirked enough to show the hint of a deadly fang. "Sidhe? Oh, no. I'm something much, _much_ more fun." The laughter eventually eased off, though the smile ended up remaining—tugging the man's lips upwards as he began to circle about the soldier the way that a wolf would right before it moved in to strike. "Tell me, Ambrosius Aurelianus, how much longer do you think that your men can fight? You lose many each battle and still more are beginning to let go of their hope; it is only your name that keeps them fighting on."

The man shuddered, eyes briefly closing tight: how was it that this man—if man or faerie he be—knew of his parents, knew of his Roman lineage, the great men and women that he was descended from? It was… frightening. He had kept it from the men, knowing just how bitter the Britons were over Rome withdrawing from their lands to leave them at the mercy of the Anglo-Saxons. Tensions—and tempers—were high, and though Emrys loved his fellow countrymen… still, he could not _trust_ them.

Following that particular thought, the devil shuddered in delight—knowing full well that his prey would soon be desperate and would soon be willing to take the bargain that he would present. A trade for trade: an equal transaction, and it was one that made the devil lick its lips. It had been a long, long time since the last contract, and though he didn't need to feed… gluttony wasn't his patron sin, but how could he resist indulging when the opportunity presented itself?

"Your name," the devil whispered, voice coaxing and sweetly cajoling. "It is your name that gives your people hope. Come and make a contract with me, and I will ensure that your people will always feel hope when your name is spoken aloud: you will become an ideal—" and, oh, here it was so difficult to keep the sneer from his face "—for your people to hold tight to. Come, come~ Cross your palm with my own."

"And what is it that you expect in return?" Emrys asked, mouth suddenly dry as the umber-eyed man brushed against his body, hand smoothing teasingly over the arch of the soldier's hip.

A whisper came then, a murmuring velveteen voice that stirred the strands of hair against his throat. "Your soul, Ambrosius Aurelianus. Your soul, for hope is an exceptionally expensive commodity."

Emrys closed his eyes, throat tight as he fought the pricking of tears at the corners of his eyes. His soul…? His immortal soul to be sold to ensure the safety of his people, to ensure that they would always have a home to call their own…? It was a steep price, indeed, and yet… these were _his people_. Not able to bring himself to speak, Emrys silently nodded his head in agreement.

The demon growled hungrily and the last sound that Emrys heard before everything ceased to _be_ were the purred words, "All hail Arthur, King of the Britons."

**VII.**

It had been a slow voyage on the barge that made its way up the River Arno, but the sight of beautiful, beautiful Florence spread out over the banks of the river and the Italian countryside was a sight that brought tears to Giovanni Boccaccio's eyes. "It has been many years since I have last seen my home city," the Florentine said to the willowy creature at his side. "My father and I have been in Naples for far too long—our lives have changed since we were here last, but I intend to stay in Florence from now on."

"To be inspired by your city in your work?" the devil asked archly, glancing at Giovanni from the corner of his gaze; the demon's expression was the epitome of cat-got-the-canary and, for just a moment, the writer felt a stirring of unease. And yet… perhaps all was truly well: the devil had offered itself up to be shackled to him, had helped Giovanni acquire many things that he had needed. Had promised to provide an inspiration so that the author could write what he hoped would be his greatest work yet: _The Decameron_.

Averting his gaze and trying to release the feeling that something was wrong—very, _very_ wrong—Giovanni cleared his throat and once more looked forward so that he could watch his beloved city come ever closer. Despite the trials and tribulations he had gone through and finding his true and destined lady love of his heart in Naples—and finding her also to be already _married_ to Robert the Wise… ah, there had been much heartache while Giovanni had been away. But that was then and there and in the past, and with being home again, Giovanni would have the chance to start anew. Lady Fortune had been frowning down at him for much of his life, but the writer was determined to charm her into finally giving him her blessing, fully intending to claim her coveted kiss for himself.

The poetry that he would write, the stories—and perhaps, too, his dear friend Petrarch would come to visit and they could once more catch up on the goings on within each other's lives in the way that letters alone couldn't completely convey. Yes, he had truly missed Florence—and for so many reasons. The demon at his side would help him claim so many otherwise missed opportunities. It was time for a change. It was time for a new start. It was time for a different _life_ to begin.

It was good to be home.

Giovanni lingered a bit longer on the deck with the devil at his side, watching the sailors work the cumbersome barge towards its allotted pier. It had taken longer than expected until they had finally landed, but the Italian man used the time to gather his belongings together, tossing his satchel over a shoulder before making his way down the gangplank.

The devil, however, remained still for several moments after his current contractor had made his way down to the pier. The only witness to the events that were taking place, the man with eyes the color of heart's blood watched several rats scurry off of the boat, some of them swimming awkwardly through the water to head towards the opening of the sewers that formed a labyrinth beneath the city; the demon quieted his shudder of ecstasy, his shadow upon the deck darkening with malevolence for less than a second before he regained control of himself.

Two thirds of Europe's population completely annihilated within a few short years—

Oh, how he looked forward to it all.

**VIII.**

"I wish to utterly annihilate them."

Despite the years that he had spent on the mortal plane, it still brought a frisson of delight to the demon when he came across a new depth to human darkness. Here, the demon was confronted with an image of a pathetic boy: so very young and with eyes so very old, echoing the abyss that he had been plunged into with his father's betrayal. This human had spirit: the audacity to insult his captors, the refusal to be broken with the repeated beatings, the despair that would have driven so many to suicide at seeing his younger brother defect.

But the boy had survived, and the boy had forged himself in his hatred to become a mortal that resonated with iron intent. And there was so much chaos and destruction that the devil could wreak through the boy's future actions, the eddies of anticipation once more slipping through his Hellfire eyes. So much potential, and the world would still remember this boy's name centuries from now.

"Tell me," the creature began, voice rumbling in the air like the foreshadowing of a storm. "Tell me, boy, do you wish to form a contract with me? I could hear the screams of your enemies from the bottom of the Abyss—and you have only just begun."

An answer to the offer came as a small smile, dark eyes smoldering with banked fire.

The child slowly seemed morphed before the demon's eyes, becoming older, harder, crueler—refusing to allow crime and conspiracy in his homeland, ruling with an vengeful first as he eradicated the corruption one person at a time. One by one, his family's betrayers fell and the child—now a man with just a blink of the devil's eye—could only bring himself to feel a black sort of satisfaction.

The corruption began to flee before him, and the Ottoman Empire—led by the bastard Mehmed II—was held at bay each time it attempted to invade Transylvania. He fought and fought and killed and annihilated everything within his path, and Vlad Țepeș was a man feared throughout the known world.

"It seems as if your servants don't approve of the places where you prefer to dine," the demon said, offering up a chortled comment as he draped himself over Vlad's shoulders, using one as a comfortable, padded chin rest. The devil's smile was sly, and he glanced askance at the servant in question: setting plates down upon the pine table with one hand, the other used to pinch his nose shut as he made his way through the Forest of the Impaled.

The Transylvanian prince idly quirked an eyebrow as he and his devil watched the servingman go about his business. Waiting until all of the food was laid out, Vlad leaned forward—not-so-accidentally dislodging the devil's perch—and gestured the peasant over. "Why are you doing that?" he asked, allowing his tone to be conversational and shifting his appearance into becoming a man who was easily approached by his household.

"My lord, I cannot stand the stench," the man answered honestly, voice slightly nasal due to the fact that he refused to relinquish his hold upon his nose, gorge rising whenever he did so—the rotting of the boyars and the Turkish soldiers who had come to take over the prince's home made the servingman's gorge rise and he had already been quietly sick in the underbrush several times throughout the meal.

In reply, Vlad laughed gaily, facial expression convivial as he smiled at the servant. "Ah. Is that so?" A slight gesture brought his guards forward: they grabbed the servant and took him into the Forest of the Impaled where the man was soon after screaming in pain and terror as the prince's loyal men began to put him upon the highest stake. Pitching his voice to carry over the shrieks, Dracula called out: "If that is so, my friend, then you shall live up there where the stench cannot reach you."

The demon laughed, and the hoarse cry of the raven echoed within the sound.

**IX.**

The devil's favorite part of humanity was the hypocrisies that they self-perpetuated.

In an attempt to gain power that was always very firmly denied to her, the Catholic Queen had agreed to a contract with him: Mary, Queen of Scots, and a not-so pious soul. The irony had always been an element of secret glee for the devil had always purred with sated, sadistic pleasure whenever a follower of God renounced Him to follow the path downwards into Hell. What could be more perfect than to have a woman, this particular woman, one of the mortals who had a claim to the Divine Right of Kings—and lo, how far the mighty have fallen.

Pride was a sin that many succumbed to.

He circled around the praying Queen, enigmatic smile curling his lips upwards as he stepped—paused—stepped—paused, taunting the doomed woman with his presence. She trembled as he continued on with his journey, but her face was surprisingly free of tears as she lifted her head to meet his gaze. "You promised me power. You promised me that I would have the chance to rule."

The devil couldn't help but laugh at that particular accusation. "I _did_ give you the chance to rule, my lady."

Her dainty hands clenched in restrained fury, though Mary's brows furrowed as she snapped out in reply, "This is a _lie_. You promised me that I would rule England—"

Tutting quietly, the creature interrupted the royal before she could get much further. "You asked that I give you the chance to rule. I did. You ruled Scotland when you returned to Leith after your lord husband Francis died. You _ruled_, my lady. But you never made it understood that you wanted to rule _England_."

The middle-aged queen stared at her own personal devil for achingly long moments as her face bleached white, all color leaving her normally rosy cheeks. Realizing the error that she had made as a seventeen year-old girl, forgetting that wording was so key—for such a large portion of her life, she had been tricked. The demon had manipulated her words, deliberately taking them at face value. And leaving her with absolutely nothing: No husband, her child denied her, a kingdom that she would never be able to look after and guide with a Catholic sensibility.

She had sold herself to the devil, and Mary finally realized that nothing but oblivion would come of it. A shudder wracked through her body, and the normally regal woman clutched desperately at her rosary, praying harder than she had ever prayed before for some type of saving grace.

It did not come.

The next day, the demon lounged against a wall at the back of the crowd that had gathered to witness Mary, Queen of Scots' execution. His eyes sparked with sadism when the first strike from the ax only clipped the queen on the back of her head, but finally stirred himself to come closer as the second strike finally cleaved her head from her body.

He didn't bother stifling his amused chuckle as the executioner held up Mary's head for all to see, the last public recognition for the ex-royal, and the man's rumbling baritone called out through the courtyard, "God save the Queen."

God save the Queen, indeed.

**X.**

Maria Antonia Josepha Johanna wished that her mother would turn about and finally _see_ her; however, that was not to be: Archduchess Maria Christina, her older sister and her mother's favorite child, was visiting from the estate—and their mother would be preoccupied with the favored daughter for hours on end.

"It isn't fair," the young girl whispered to herself, fingers knotting in the muslin of her day gown as she watched the two older women walk arm-in-arm through the gardens of Schönbrunn Palace. The jealousy rose up within her like bile, and it was so incredibly hard to force herself to swallow it down.

The harpsichord creaked warningly in her hands as her knuckles turned white.

"If it isn't fair, then why not change things?" came a voice at her shoulder. The blonde girl started, turning about to look up at the exotic-looking man with large blue eyes. Seeing that he had frightened her, the dark-haired man's smile developed a cruel edge. "With fourteen other siblings, I can only imagine just how difficult it would be to gain your mother's attention. Still, though, I may be able to help~" The last was said with a playful wink, and the Archduchess blushed prettily, glancing down at the toes of her shoes that peeked shyly out from beneath her layers of petticoats.

"And how would I go about doing that?" Maria Antonia asked after a brief silence, weighing her response and considering whether or not it was truly wise to vocalize such curiosity—but the loneliness and the desire for her mother's attention had been such a driving force in much of the girl's life. And with someone offering up a solution, stranger though the man might be…? She had to take it.

"Watch and see. Watch and see, sweet Archduchess," the man chuckled.

When she looked up again, the man was gone. Breath catching in her throat—had he been a ghost?—she clutched her instrument to her chest, heart hammering before she finally turned to run from the hallway that overlooked the gardens.

It took several months to finally realize what the beautiful man had intended, but when the realization hit… Maria Antonia was left helpless as she watched family member after family member die from an outbreak of smallpox. So many succumbed to the disease, and the girl could only watch with tear-filled eyes and with shaking hands pressed to her mouth as her siblings left her to fly upwards to reside in heaven.

For surely heaven actually existed and surely her family went there to live for the rest of eternity—no truly evil actions of their own having condemned them to death; in the end, it was the foolish interest that she had given in a bid for her mother's love and affection. Her agreement. Her contract.

And her mother's consideration had been bought with the deaths of her sisters.

"Maria Antonia, the alliance between Austria and France has finally been agreed upon. With you the only eligible daughter remaining, you have been betrothed to the Dauphin of France. I am so proud of you: My daughter, very soon you will restyled as Marie Antoinette, Dauphine of France—and you will help bring peace to our two countries."

The beautiful man watched from the shadows, and Maria Antonia knew that her fate was sealed.

**XI.**

"_Oh~_ Well, aren't you a very small master."

The chuckled words slipped like sin through the hushed chamber where the cultists had gathered for their ceremony. The darkness deepened, parting to reveal the nothingness of the Void—and several of the men and women, not prepared for _what_, exactly, had been summoned went bad with the knowledge of the pitiless Abyss. Ignoring the fools, the devil stepped closer to the altar where the pretty-eyed boy lay spread-eagled: these humans had thought to sacrifice something so expressly exquisite, using the child for fodder for the lower legions?

How _wasteful_.

The boy stirred slightly, head lolling about on his limp neck as he turned to the side so that he could watch the devil approach. So cynical, those eyes. It had been such a very long time since the demon had last had a mortal look at him with eyes such as those—and, perhaps, there truly had been _no_ mortal that he had come across that had been able to reach that soul deep level of inner night.

"Do you wish to form a contract with me?" the devil asked as he step-step-tapped his way around the altar, the adults falling away with frightened murmurs. They clutched at one another, but the devil dismissed them all for now: his entire attention was given over to the boy that continued to meet his Hellfire eyes with an unwavering stare.

Something shifted within the devil's chest, and—for the first time in his exceptionally long lifetime—he felt the need to offer up a warning before the child agreed to the farce covenant:

"Remember that once something has been lost, it can never be returned. Your soul is the payment that I seek. If you agree to the contract, you will be denied access to heaven—now and forever more."

The boy reached out with too-thin fingers, body obviously malnourished, and wrapped his hand tight around the devil's wrist; he clung with an intensity that was wholly unexpected, noble pride still in existence—in tatters, but present—as his hold intensified just enough to press tendon to bone. "Form the contract," the boy ordered, voice ringing with an authority that all of the previous contractors had lacked; belatedly, the demon realized that this child would _never_ back down from any challenge that would appear before him. This contractor would be different from all of the rest. "And then kill them all."

Staring down into those sapphire-blue eyes, the right one shifting to violet as the demon's contract symbol imprinted itself upon the iris and pupil, the demon surprised himself by experiencing a gut-wrenching yearning, a sharp spike of _want _that immediately settled within his belly and chest, burrowing deep to ensure that it could never be dug out.

The Void swirled, devouring all that it touched. Amidst the screams of horror, the ember hidden within the devil's gaze sparked to life; as the devil and his contractor continued to look upon one another, that spark began to blaze and soon enough became an inferno. Hotter and hotter the Hellfire burned, and the demon knew instinctively that this was a flame that would never burn out, the intensity stark enough to burn even him.

"Yes, my Lord."

**End.**


	2. I

_Author's Note:_ After much internal debate and then with mhikaru's happy flailing as encouragement, I decided to continue this. Each chapter will be a more concentrated study of Sebastian's various contracts (and/or the contractors themselves), and this will be done in the order outlined in "chapter one." Please keep in mind that I'm an English major, not a History major—there will be artistic license taken in some situations, though I have tried to do at least a minimal level of research. Enjoy~

* * *

**I.**

He was reminded of his family's fall from grace each and every day.

Cain and his father toiled beneath the scorching sun, working the ground and hoping—praying—to coax something living from it. More often than not, the earth reminded barren and his family's bellies remained empty. It was backbreaking work, and he could feel his spine curving slowly over the course of months: Cain knew that it wouldn't be much longer before he became hunchbacked from his time out in the fields.

When he and his father came in for the night, his mother would greet him with a smile—worn though it was, tired and with lines bracketing her mouth, Cain could still see the beauty that Yahweh had created her with. It was in the shimmer of her hair, nevermind the fact that silver had began to streak it, and it was in the way that her eyes lit when her husband returned home. Cain would always turn his head away to give his parents privacy as his father reached out to lightly settle his hand upon his mother's. Despite it all, he knew that his parents loved each other.

But when the days out in the fields became longer and longer, it was hard to remember that—it was hard to remember that his parents, as well, loved him and his brother; it was hard to remember that all when the growing season ended with very little crops and Cain would close his eyes at night and dream of Eden.

Truly, he loved his parents.

But Cain hated them, too.

And his brother…

Oh, sweet, _sweet_ Abel; he was their mother's favorite, their father's pride and joy, the gem of humanity in their Lord's eyes—the one man who would, perhaps, make up for the sins that their parents were guilty of while they resided within Eden. And it wasn't fair. It wasn't _fair_. He remembered the time when his brother had come in for the night from his time with the sheep—he had smiled shyly in embarrassment, eyes downcast as he admitted to shirking his duties. He had fallen asleep and wolves had come in to destroy nearly half of their flock and scattered the rest. Yahweh had protected his brother from the animals, but not their livelihood—not the meat that they would need to stay strong.

It had been during the growing season. Their father and Cain had taken days off of work to search for the rest of the herd. They found some of them—some, not all. And then it was back to the fields, trying hard to catch up on the work that they had missed; that winter had been particularly difficult. The crops had been sparse. And they had no meat.

Dearest brother, the favorite.

It was agonizing for the eldest, standing in the shadows and watching how they doted. The day that Abel had been born was the day that the family once more felt the touch of Yahweh's blessing. From the time that their parents had been expelled from Eden to the moment of the youngest's birth, they had been ignored, been shunned from divine sight; and then, suddenly, all had been forgiven for the Lord had said that Abel had been conceived in love.

And Cain in sin.

Thus, he was punished for his parents' sins and the one of his own in his birth. Days spent in toil, chipping away bit by bit at the hard earth in hope to coax something living from the ground. Very little ever does; very little ever did.

The first growing season was hard. Up at dawn to head out to where the father and Cain planted their seeds. It was a fight, each and every time, to get enough to survive. Time passed, however, and they became better farmers. It was either that or die. That time took its toll on the father, though, the price paid in laboring to live: lines creased the corners of his lips, brow heavy, and hair white while Cain could remember a time when it was as dark as his own.

Yesterday, the eldest finally discovered the salt peppering the temples near his scalp.

Their labor was finally claiming its price on his own body.

**XXX**

Last season had been their first successful one. Proud of themselves, they began to organize a day of celebration for Yahweh—hoping, perhaps, that he would be pleased with them. Hoping, perhaps, that he would grace them with his presence. Cain had kept the best for him, the one that they loved with all of their souls: the ripest fruits, the most golden stalks of wheat, the vegetables that would have kept their family healthy and strong through the winter. Everything, all of it—he had kept in reserve for their Lord, settling it upon their altar. It had been ignored.

Oh, how it had stung, seeing his sacrifices overlooked in favor for several of the newborn lambs that Abel had helped birth that very morning. Cain, too, had been up to help: hands running carefully over the ewe's sides as he murmured words of encouragement to the struggling mother. But they had gotten the ewes through it, and each mother had successfully given birth to a lively lamb.

Then they were slaughtered, and Yahweh appeared—shining so bright that it was painful to look upon his visage, and the Lord had taken Abel's head between his hands to press infinitely tender lips to the youngest brother's forehead. Cain had watched it all—ever from the shadows, ever overlooked—as tears streaked his cheeks and a desperate ache to be _loved_ settled deep within his chest, burrowing further and further to eat at his heart.

It wasn't fair.

_It wasn't fair._

But the creature who had appeared before him, who had reached out with a heaven-touched hand, nevermind how black it was now, and Cain reached out to clasp that back in return. "Come and make a contract with me," the devil had murmured with a voice laden thick with sin; still, it was all the more beautiful because of it. The creature had smiled at the eldest son with dark feathers falling about him like a cloak, and that ache of loss within Cain's chest had ceased. To be loved by the divine, if only for a moment, but with all sincerity…

His hand tightened around the devil's, holding tight and fast.

Given a blessing, damned though it was, Cain had no intention of ever letting it go.

**XXX**

"Yahweh told me that you're consorting with the Enemy, you traitor!"

The elder ignored Abel's cry of rage, keeping his gaze lowered as he tried hard to soften the soil with the blade of his hoe. It had helped, sometimes, in the past—but the earth had seemed to thicken and become harder with each growing season, leaving Cain and his father to fight more and more. With the drought that Adam predicted would be coming soon, Cain thought that perhaps it was time for them to move on to somewhere better.

Maybe in time they could learn to create their own Eden.

The shove sent him sprawling, sliding over the parched dirt; it had been unexpected because Abel had never been a violent man, had never before raised his hand in anger at anyone. Cain stared up, surprised and with wide eyes: his brother's flushed face greeted him, dark eyes alight with fury as spittle flecked his beard. "You traitor! How dare you do this to our family! How dare you do this to our _Lord_!"

Hatred surged, rushing up like the sea upon the shoreline. With hands shaking in the most anger that he had ever felt, Cain pushed himself up so that he was standing before his brother—fields and fields of dead, dying earth and with the best of their crops rejected by the one that they had spent their entire lives trying to please. It wasn't fair, it hadn't been fair from the beginning, and the elder of the two brothers finally came to terms with the knowledge that he had been trying to deny for his entire life.

"Our Lord? _Our_ Lord?" he retorted, skin stretched tight over his cheekbones from the kiss of the sun—the only kiss that anyone had deigned to give to him. "He has always been _your_ Lord: blessed from the beginning, loved by him, _favored_ by him. We have all fought to survive, to please him with how we live our lives. But you…! But _you_, Abel, were touched by the divine the moment you were conceived in our mother's womb. You—"

Abel spit on him.

And the rage and the hatred wound tighter yet, burrowing close to one another's bosoms as Cain lashed out and struck his younger brother. The hoe's blade cut through muscle and bone, flesh parting easily beneath the elder's force, and blood sprayed over the greedy earth, eager to drink in the young man's life.

Abel stared up at his brother with horrified eyes, crimson streaking his face and chest—and Cain continued to strike and strike, using the muscles made granite by years of toiling and fighting against uncaring dirt. He lashed down with the hoe, its blade painted with red the same color that covered their altar, and he made a sacrifice of his brother as Cain exorcised the hatred from himself.

It was dusk when the devil once more made his reappearance, settling his body snugly against Cain's back. He nuzzled against the man's throat, licking away a streak of blood with a tongue that felt too rough to be natural. "Do you regret it?" the demon asked in his purring voice, darkness-tipped fingers combing idly through Cain's blood-coated hair.

"No," came the simple answer, the human's head tilted back to take in the glory of the heavens above them both. He sighed softly, eyes finally closing as he leaned back against the too-warm body against his own.

"And why do you not?"

Cain chuckled at that, smile flitting across his mouth as he finally turned in the creature's hold to look the other in the eye, his own gaze burning with intensity. "Because it was never, ever fair. And I took my own form of justice. It was decided that I was damned from the moment of my conception, and now I place myself beyond Yahweh's retribution." The smile deepened at that, and the elder brother leaned forward to press his mouth against the devil's. "Tell me that you love me," the man whispered against the demon's lips, begging for that touch of divine favor, for the love that had always been denied to him when he so desperately wanted it, craved it, _needed_ it. Too long he had spent in the shadows, and Cain wished for that lingering touch at least once before he plunged down to Hell.

"I love you," the devil lied smoothly as he smiled with pure sin, a hungry growl rumbling up from the depths of his body, and he parted his lips to take his prize from the Lord's dominion. The soul shrieked in pain as it was torn from its mortal host, and the devil consumed it all with fiendish glee.

Eventually, when his hunger was sated, the demon allowed the lifeless body to fall from his hands, tumbling down to the dirt at his feet. Smile curving in full-bodied self-satisfaction, the creature purred and stepped over the dead man to make his way towards the grove of shadows, branches of the dying orchard reaching out to embrace him back into the night.

Damned and dead—and forever labeled as the world's first murderer.

And all for the man's own idea of "justice."

So easily corrupted, so easily manipulated and twisted into a semblance of a human that no longer remained _humane_. It was glorious, and the centuries stretched out before him: history slowly unfolding, mortals evolving to the point where sin would be commonplace and vice would guide their hearts. The devil didn't bother trying to stifle his shudder of delight, and it was with a laugh that echoed with a raven's harsh cry that he finally slowly disappeared from the human realm.

…for now.


	3. II

**II.**

The boy was eighteen years old—and he was dying.

Rumors had been whispering through the palace, murmurs that spoke of how he had been poisoned, of how this was an assassination and no one knew how to cure the young Pharaoh since no one knew what it was that had poisoned him in the first place. So they mourned though he was not yet dead.

Tutankhamun knew, however, that he hadn't been poisoned: there was something wrong within his body, something off that should have been fixed long before—but hadn't. And because that mistake, that error, hadn't been addressed when it had first appeared, he was now paying the price. He was dying.

His breathing stuttered every so often, the sweat stark against his dark skin. As he fought to breathe, his sister and wife, Ankhesenamen, kept a comforting hold on his hand with fingers curled protectively around her husband's. "Do not fret," she murmured softly, dipping a linen cloth into a basin of water to wipe away the sick-sweat with a gentle touch. "You shall heal, Husband, and return to ruling soon enough."

He knew better.

"And that's what makes you a smart man," a chuckling voice commented from the side. Tutankhamun shivered at it, knowing full well who it was that would be meeting his gaze once he turned his head. He still didn't want to, however, and closed his eyes to tighten his hold upon his wife's hand. "Oh~ Come, come now. Don't be like that, Tutankhamun."

He hoped that tears were not present in his eyes as he finally lifted his lashes, turning his head to meet the quietly glowing, quietly vindictive gaze of the creature that had claimed his Ka and denied him his afterlife—all willing, and all done with the agreement of a child who didn't know better.

"What you did—what you've come to claim—was done with no thought to fairness," the eighteen year-old pharaoh whispered through chapped lips; his eyes were too wide now, the whites of his eyes threaded with red veins as he tried, tried so hard, to keep himself from crying before his wife.

"That's the point," the devil retorted easily enough, unashamed by his actions. And, Tutankhamun, why _would_ the demon be concerned with the thought of "fairness" and what was "right"? It was obvious that this had been done on purpose, and yet… Tutankhamun still couldn't release the bone-deep weariness at the thought that it truly _hadn't been fair_.

"Why did you pick me?" the pharaoh eventually asked as his wife eased the damp cloth over his forehead and cheeks with a trembling hand. Gently, Tutankhamun's fingers tightened in an attempt to reassure her—but from the way that her lashes quivered as she lowered her gaze, the boy-pharaoh knew that his attempt at reassurance and condolence hadn't worked. Not at all.

The devil smiled slowly and eased off of the ledge that he had perched himself on. His lashes lowered, veiling his gaze and giving him a sleepy, sated expression. "Why did I choose to make a contract with you?" the creature asked in a purring murmur as he stalked closer to Tutankhamun. The demon glanced at the pharaoh's wife, the color of his gaze flaring dangerously; with a cry, she jerked her hand away from Tutankhamun and fled from the room, weeping into a hand at her cowardice—but the fear was overwhelming and, as much as she loved her brother and husband… it was still too much.

Idly, the demon began to walk his fingers over the shuddering chest, the delicate tips of his obsidian-dark claws cutting occasionally when the creature was feeling particularly vicious.

"Your father was Akhenaton," the demon murmured, a sly, cruel smile flitting about his mouth as he continued his painful teasing over Tutankhamun's chest. The boy-pharaoh again closed his eyes, chest quivering as he fought to keep his breath from sobbing out in terror at the knowledge of what was to come. "Your father," the devil continued, voice dipping lower into a quieter murmur, "changed your religion into something that you and your people had never seen before. You went from worshipping so many gods, each important in their own way—intriguing in each's duality of personality—to the worship of _a _god."

Tutankhamun nodded slightly. "This is true. My father encouraged worship of Aten only. It was his decree and, as pharaoh…"

"You had no choice but to do as he asked, Tutankhaten," the creature said in reply, laughing with dark delight.

The boy-pharaoh abruptly shook his head, and his fingers curled into the linen sheets beneath his body. One might have said that his retort was filled with defiance—but, still, there was no true force behind his words. "No. That is no longer my name, Agathodemon. You were right when you named me Tutankhamun all those years ago."

"You changed your name when you brought your capital—and your people—back to Thebes. When you reinstated Amun and let Aten fall into obscurity," the demon said in answer to Tutankhamun's words, and it was obvious that the demon was enjoying exercising this particular brand of cruelty. "And that is why I contracted with you."

"Why? _Why?_ Just tell me _**why**_ you did—why you are tormenting me now when you could have just as easily taken my soul and been done with it!" the boy-pharaoh suddenly screamed, rage giving him temporary strength enough to throw a lapis lazuli urn at the creature before him.

The devil easily evaded the urn, laughing all the while as the pointed heels of his leather boots tap-tap-tapped dangerously against the marble floor of the boy-pharaoh's palace. "I did it to ensure that you and your people will go to Hell to join Hêlēl's armies. Your father had made it so that you would be saved in your worship of this one deity above all others—in his worship of Aten. But you… Ah~ You, dear Pharaoh…"

Tutankhamun abruptly stilled, bringing a hand up to cover his face as realization finally—truly—dawned. He had doomed his people; though he did not know who this Hêlēl was, the creature's glee in speaking those words that he had murmured in such a sweet tone… doom and, perhaps, eternal torment.

By bringing back the worship of the old gods, of returning to Thebes as his family's rightful home… he had done this?

"Years from now," the devil began, laughing quietly as he stepped closer to Tutankhamun to clamp his fingers over the bone in the boy's leg that had never been set right—one of the reasons why he was dying now—and to shove it down viciously against the examining cot beneath the pharaoh's body. Tutankhamun screamed in pain, writhing and trying to clutch at whatever was close to him, trying to find some outlet for the pain. "Years from now," the creature continued, "there will be others who will call you heathens. Infidels. The words don't matter, have never mattered—but the meaning behind them has. Your refusal to worship the one "true" God has ensured that you will never find peace in the afterlife; your deliberate action in turning your back to that God…?"

An echoing, eerie laugh that retained the harsh cry of a crow despite it all.

"Your people are destined to join me in my home. There will be no hope for your people, your Egyptians—that endearing and vulnerable _flock_ that you were charged with looking after, O Living _God_."

The boy-pharaoh stared up into the eyes of the creature that he had made his original deal with; he had grown up hearing tales of good but foolish men making pacts with the Darkness. Even as a boy, they had never frightened him because he had never put much credence in them. Now, however… he wished that he had. Now, he was face to face with the true face of Darkness, the Oblivion that waited for those too arrogant to pay attention to how they lived their lives.

"Please…" Tutankhamun whispered.

He had never begged for anything in his life—but, oh, now he was.

"Please," the Pharaoh repeated as he ignored the pain in his leg, the dizziness that came from the sickness that robbed him of his strength. His fingers, in turn, wrapped around the creature's wrist and he clung desperately. He prayed to whatever deity that was listening—whether one or many, the number didn't matter so long as there was something, some_thing_ there to pay attention to his plea—and hoped, hoped desperately. "Please do not doom my daughters to this; they are my children. I love them. Please do not do this to them. Please do not do this to Ankhesenamen. I will do whatever you ask, give you whatever you want… but please, Agathodemon. _Please_."

The creature slowly smiled at that, the edge of it cruel and cat-got-the-canary. Gently, he unwrapped Tutankhamun's fingers from around his wrist before leaning forward to hover over the dying ruler's chest. "But, lo," the devil whispered, breathing sensually over the boy-pharaoh's mouth. "You have nothing else to give to me. I have a claim to your Ka, sealed by the contract that you agreed to when you were a child."

"I did not understand, and you took my innocence from me with that pact," the boy whispered as tears began to flow, their tracks falling freely down the sides of his face. "But I can forgive you that deception if you just leave my wife and my daughters be. They have had nothing to do with this. Let them go."

"What need do I have for your forgiveness?" The devil smiled sharply as he spoke, leaning over the sickly body beneath his own as he gently brushed his mouth against the pharaoh's white-ringed one. "I am a devil," he purred, the croon so sweet and deceptively gentle. "I reside where there is only torment—hate and despair and fury so deep and encompassing that it overtakes all who just barely brush its edges; the worst of humanity and its refuse, its true face: this is where I make my home. And I shall tell you a secret, little Pharaoh, one never told to anyone else."

Chuckling, the demon clamped down upon the boy's leg once more and Tutankhamun's head tipped backwards at the agony as he screamed and screamed and _screamed_ at the pain, his vision going white as he fought to stay conscious. "When Hêlēl and his minions fell from Grace, I followed them willingly."

Tutankhamun's heart stuttered in fear at the devil's words, laboring at the pain and the exertion that the creature was making him suffer further through: this would be the last thing that he would ever feel—pain, so very much pain.

Smile sly and enigmatic, the creature finally left his tormenting Tutankhamun so that he could walk around the invalid's cot. The boy-pharaoh couldn't stifle his quiet whimper and the sound only enticed a croon from the demon in answer. Black-tipped fingers splayed over the sides of Tutankhamun's head and then there was a sudden jerk—and a loud "snap." Lifeless, the demon let the body fall from between his hands.

It was that, however, that finally coaxed Ankhesenamen into the room despite her terror of the creature that her husband had always called the Agathodemon, the creature that had inspired him in his rule and had granted him the power needed to go through with the goals that he had decided upon when his father had died. His voice had always held a trace of fear, but—oh—also so much reverence for the _thing_ before her. The _thing_ that had just killed her husband.

"Shall I tell you what your husband has ensured that you will experience once you and your children are dead?" the devil asked, purring softly as a quiet smile curved his lips upwards in a sexually pleasing smile. He was full, sated for the first time in centuries—since his very first meal.

In answer, the woman's kohl-lined eyes lowered; her demeanor was the epitome of graceful, of highest nobility and aristocracy. She had been born to rule, to be the wife of the Pharaoh; she carried herself with that power. And she spoke to the devil even through her fear, voice quivering as she tried to retain her sanity through the pounding of her heart. "It does not matter," she said in answer, ignoring how the demon's smile deepened. "My husband did what he thought was best for our people. He wanted only the best, wanted to ensure that our people would be strong and healthy, that our culture would continue on long after we have passed."

The devil shrugged a shoulder idly. "You, your people, and your way of life will die—and you and your daughters were the ransom that your husband paid; it is the ransom that I happily take and take you to Hell with me through his death."

Ankhesenamen's hands shook as she curled her fingers over the soft linen of the sheath of her dress, tearing at the soft material with her fingernails. The cruelty of this creature... This _thing_ was the epitome of the inhumane. How could her husband have ever admired it, spoken of it with reverence and blaspheming worship? Though her voice was quiet, barely more than a whisper of breath that came from her parted lips, it was still filled with soul-deep rage: "I hate you."

The demon's eyes gleamed at those particular words.

"_Excellent_, my dear~ Hate me with all that you are."

Because the hate just quickened her fall into the Abyss.


	4. III

**III.**

He dreamt of immortality.

The man now known as Qin Shi Huangdi, the first Emperor of China, had grown up listening to his grandmother and his mother's stories of Zhifu Island and the elixir of life that resided there—the Eastern Fountain of Youth, the sweet liquid that would keep him ageless for all eternity. He dreamt of it, dreamed so many dreams with him standing upon a cliff with all of China spread below; he dreamed so many dreams of watching himself uncork the flask to tilt it back, letting the revitalizing liquid stream into his mouth.

He dreamed so many dreams of being China's Emperor all of forever, of residing at the country's head upon his gilt-edged throne as the years passed him by—the people dying but he, himself, continuing on as China's strongest symbol while his nation strengthened to impossible amounts.

He dreamed; oh, how he dreamed.

The dream of immortality, however, was the one that continued on for the longest time: throughout childhood and into adulthood, frightening him with the possibility that this particular dream might not be true—before rumors of "maybe" lulled him back into the complacent knowledge that he, alone, would find this elixir.

"You know that it was nothing more than a story that I told you to coax you to sleep, darling," Qin Shi Huangdi's mother murmured at his back as he watched the latest exploration team head out of the capital to begin their search for Zhifu Island. "Please stop this, my son; the elixir of life does not exist, and you are sending innocent people to their death with these missions."

He glanced back at her, brown eyes dark and hard. "While other tales that you told me while I was a child _were_ nothing more than stories, _this_ particular tale is true. Men—men centuries of years old—have visited me in the shadows of midnight, and they have spoken to me of the island and the elixir that they have drunk there."

"Oh, my son," the Emperor's mother whispered sadly as she stepped up before him; she cupped his face between her hands, thumbs gently brushing over his cheekbones as she stared into his warrior's eyes, her own gaze gentle with pity. "There is no way to fight the cycle of life: things live, grow old, and die—this is the way of the world, child; do great things with your life. But do not rely on the story to _define_ it."

Very deliberately, Qin Shi Huangdi pulled away from the woman's touch, gaze going flinty with contempt from her words. He heard them, but he chose not to believe them—the world was large and Zhifu Island _truly_ had to exist. He would transcend mortality and become like a god to his people, worshipped and held in awe as he governed them all for all of eternity.

But his mother was ruining it with her words.

"Leave me," the son stated, voice cold and remote. Her hands clasped together, and she paused briefly—for just a moment—before reaching out once more to settle the palm of a hand against the brocade of her dearest son's brocaded robes of state. Jerking away from her, he turned and slapped her, sending her tumbling to the floor with a soft cry.

Qin Shi Huangdi's mother looked up at him with wide, tear-filled eyes: never before had her son raised his hand to her. "My son…" she whispered, holding a hand to her red cheek, still so incredibly shocked that he had lashed out at her when she had only spoken the truth to him—however, she realized now, it was a truth that he was not willing to hear.

That realization came too late.

The Emperor of China looked down at his mother, lip curling slightly upwards in disgust at her weakness. It didn't take long, however, until he glanced away to meet the gaze of one of his guardsmen. "Take her away," Qin Shi Huangdi ordered, turning his head away from the spectacle of the guards coming forward to yank at the once revered woman. "And…" the man began as a mean light entered into his otherwise dark eyes. "The punishment for daring to defy the Emperor is Bo Pi."

The slicing away of the skin until the prisoner died from shock or blood loss, or even sheer horror at the torture that they were being put through. It was a horrifying way to die, and Qin Shi Huangdi preferred this method of execution for those who had personally offended him. Those that broke the law or were prisoners of war, he enjoyed sentencing the perpetrators to Huo Mai: live burial.

She screamed, and he listened to her screaming as the guards dragged her by her hair and clothes through the palace; their grips upon her pale skin were harsh and they bruised her—but she could not bring herself to care about such a petty, small thing when her own son had sentenced her to death. When her own son had sentenced her to die a horrible, painful death.

She wept.

As his mother's cries for mercy began to fade as the guards took her to the cells reserved for prisoners, Qin Shi Huangdi frowned slightly and returned his attention to the sight of his capital city spread out around the palace. There was so much potential there, so many things that he could improve now that China was united. United and strong and able to withstand any blow with him ruling the nation.

His hands shook with excitement, and the Emperor clutched at the balcony's edge. The power that he wielded _now_, the power that he _would_ wield in the future… Qin Shi Huangdi's breath hitched as desire, as arousal, thrummed through his body. He pressed his lower half against the edge of the waist-high wall, putting pressure on his erection as he slowed his breathing to get his reaction once more under control.

"Ah, but the thought of power… all the _power_ that you could ever want… that power, at your beck and call—it is _arousing_, is it not~?"

The Emperor jerked his head upwards at that, staring in confusion at the creature before him: the being was perched lightly on the top of a column that was easily twelve feet high, legs neatly crossed as one booted foot idly moved back and forth in a lazy movement—echoing, almost, the predatory anticipation that caused a cat's tail to twitch slightly before it pounced upon its prey. But Qin Shi Huangdi did not think such things, though one of his members of the guard did: the creature darted a glance over at the man, and he felt delicate, invisible fingers curling around his throat to cut off his air supply.

He choked, scrabbling at his throat to try to find some way to release the invisible hold on him; nothing, however, managed to free him—until he quietly whimpered in defeat and, knowing that the man would not say a word of his thoughts to the First Emperor, the creature finally released his hold upon the mortal.

All the while, Qin Shi Huangdi looked at the creature, gaze assessing; it was obvious that this being belonged to a world that was not here—the immortal realm, where beings such as this lived for all eternity. Perhaps, too, this creature would be able to help him gain access to the elixir of life.

"Who are you?" the shrewd man eventually came to ask. After a moment as the creature's smirk deepened, he finally amended himself and changed his question to: "_What_ are you, strange creature?"

The creature laughed softly in answer, the sound quietly purring and yet sinister for all of it. Head tilted to the side, the being's lips quirked upwards into another deep, slow smirk as it stared at the human. As the gaze continued on, shadows stretched out and surrounded the being for a moment before clearing; when the area was light once more, the creature was gone from the original perch.

Gone from the column, but not entirely fled:

Boot heels tap-tap-tapped over the marble and jade of Qin Shi Huangdi's palace floors, coming around to circle the now-leery human. Seeing the prey now on guard, the being gestured innocently to himself. "I am a demon," the creature murmured, voice low; the Emperor did not notice again in his excitement, but the devil very purposefully used the Chinese word that was vague in meaning: it gave no indication as to whether the demon was a good one or a bad one.

"_Oh_," Qin Shi Huangdi whispered in reverence, gaze dewing with adoration at the many possibilities that now presented themselves before him. He gave a shiver of delight and took a step forward, reaching out towards the supernatural being in an unconscious imitation of the gesture that his mother had given to him before the Emperor had slapped her. "Are you a very powerful demon?"

"Most certainly," the devil chuckled, smile sly as it came up to the man's side to drape himself sensually over the man's body, one black-tipped finger lightly tracing an embroidered dragon upon Qin Shi Huangdi's brocade attire. "One of the highest ranked demons; I have much favor with my Lord for I am kind enough to grant the human race wishes."

The Emperor suddenly clutched desperately at the creature for those words, fingernails digging into the black, slick material beneath his skin. "Wishes? Mówáng, if you are here to grant me my wish, I would eternally be grateful. Please. Decide upon me for your honorable gift, and I swear that I will not put it to waste. Grant me my wish, Mówáng. I beg this of you."

The demon's smile deepened at that, and he once more draped himself over the Emperor's back, head turned to the side so that, as he spoke, his lips would brush temptingly over Qin Shi Huangdi's throat.

"And what is it that you wish, First Emperor of China?" the demon purred out silkily, lashes brushing gently against the edge of the man's jawline in a butterfly's kiss. But, oh, everything about the creature was so incredibly deceptive. But Qin Shi Huangdi did not see, so enamored was he by the thought of finally getting his wish, of finally being the one that would fulfill the stories that he had heard growing up: _he _would be the one to drink from the elixir of life on Zhifu Island. _He_, and he alone.

Shuddering, Qin Shi Huangdi reached up and clutched roughly at the demon's wrist, clinging tight and giving away just how desperately he wanted this particular wish to be granted—but he felt no shame because he craved immortality too strongly. Everything else paled before the chance to finally have his heart's truest desire; even his role as Emperor and the great deeds that he had accomplished during his time no longer mattered.

Only this.

_Only this_.

"Find the elixir of life for me, Mówáng. Grant me immortality. That is my wish," the Emperor whispered, ecstatic at the knowledge that he had finally succeeded in this; had gained what so many others—including his own family—had derided him for, and _he had been right_.

In response, the demon trailed his fingers over the Emperor's chest, and the man felt a brief flare of heat. He flinched and then reached up to part his robes of state; on his chest, right above his heart, a tattoo had been formed—this demon's seal that denoted a contract. With trembling fingers, Qin Shi Huangdi reached up and traced the various symbols, his touch obviously speaking for him in how much awe he was in.

"The contract has been formed," the devil whispered, voice dipping lower to suddenly pick up an edge of gravel: a low rumbling that the Emperor suddenly felt in his bones. The man shivered once more, but this time in less delight than trepidation.

Perhaps he shouldn't have…

But the elixir.

He needed the elixir to _live_.

"Thank you," Qin Shi Huangdi said as he carefully began to redo his robes, settling them over his shoulders as his most loyal bodyguard came forward to help him in the task. Once presentable, he turned his attention to the devil, resting his hands regally upon the top of the low wall. "Truly, Mówáng, thank you for picking me for this gift. Because of it, this world will change and I will be the one to change it."

The _power_ that was now at his fingertips—

Qin Shi Huangdi's hand once more settled over his heart, over the demon's contract, and his fingers clutched slightly at the fabric that hid the symbol from the rest of the world. The Emperor smiled complacently, contentedly out over his city; he knew that this day was one that would change his life forever: the future stretched out before him, and time became a mutable, ever-changing substance for him.

Perhaps it was because of his elation that the Emperor did not ask what the demon wanted in return for granting the mortal's wish.

Perhaps it was because of his elation that Qin Shi Huangdi did not ask if the elixir of life actually did exist and truly did grant the drinker with immortal life.

Perhaps.

When Qin Shi Huangdi glanced up once more to again speak with his contracted demon, the creature was already gone, though the chill in the air attested to the fact that, at one time, it _had_ been there beside him. _Had_ been, but no longer.

The guard that had been forced to remain silent throughout the duration of the interaction shuddered, a sense of dread and foreboding washing over him; though he could not think of specifics, he still knew that his Emperor's fate was not a pleasant one. He had made a deal with a devil and, as it was shown, it was _not _one of the kinder demons who did come out into the world to help humanity. His Emperor had been tricked and, because of it, his Emperor would burn.

This would be Qin Shi Huangdi's "immortality."


	5. IV

**IV.**

"He will do as I ask because he is the only one that I trust to do so," the man whispered through chapped lips, lashes lowered to veil dark eyes and to protect them from the raging desert sun high above the two figures. He was weak now, frighteningly so, but what else could be expected when one was required to go forty days and nights without food?

"And you truly do believe that he will believe in your words? That he will betray you so willingly because you _ask_ him to do so? Because you say that he _trusts_ in your words with an absolute faith?" the creature asked in return, voice lilting with the barest hint of a chuckle. The devil smirked, the curve of his mouth cruel—almost impossibly so—and tilted his head to the side so that he might better observe the starving man.

The man who claimed to be the Messiah shook his head at that, glancing away from the fallen angel. He struggled upright, unsteady on his feet, and slowly began to make his way over the sand that sucked at his feet, the earth itself determined to bring him down. "It is written that Man does not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of Yahweh. He will do as I ask because he believes in my words, is sustained by them."

"Such arrogance!" the devil said in reply, laughter finally audible as he again began to follow after the dark man, dogging his every step—his speech taunting and filled with glee. "Man feeds upon the words of Yahweh? Upon _your_ words? And yet here you are, man, nothing but a true mortal: starving from lack of food and tormenting by a thirst that parches your mouth and leaves your body as dry as the ground beneath your feet. Dead."

"Leave me, creature. You are not wanted here," the man whispered, eyes briefly closing—as if gathering together strength—and once more pushed himself to a standing position. Another step, another fall, another attempt to bring himself upright. It was a pattern that had been going on for days with the only one to bare witness the demon, the tempter, who refused to leave his side.

The devil's smile deepened at the feeble command.

"If you truly wish me gone, why not order your Father's minions to come and save you from my words? It should be easy enough, should it not? Have his army come down to rescue you from the truths that I speak, to raise you up so that you will never again strike your foot against the stone that resides beneath us both. After all, 'He will command his angels concerning you, and they will lift you up in their hands, so that you will not strike your foot against a stone.' Why continue on as you have done? Come, come. Command them. Demand that they rescue you from your torment, from the fate that you claim has been assigned to you."

The skin around the man's eyes tightened with pain and slowly building frustration, and the devil was content to see the other curl his fingers into a ball—fists shaking, though he did not lash out—yet, anyway. "It is also written: 'Do not put the Lord your God to the test.'"

Another laugh, another taunt—but the devil finally deigned himself to leave the man to his suffering, this self-imposed fasting that, in the end, would prove nothing. Forty days a reflection of the time that the man's people spent in the desert? How trite—and how convenient in that forty days was the longest that man might go without food without bringing permanent harm to himself.

Before the devil faded away completely, the only part of himself that remained being a sly, mean smile, he murmured, "Or perhaps you are afraid that you are nothing more than a true mortal—and that if you commanded Yahweh's angels to appear, silence would be your answer. After all, why would they ever respond to a simple _man's_ call?"

"_Leave!_ I said to leave me _be!_"

The demon's laughter was the man's only answer, and it lingered for days afterwards.

* * *

The disillusionment hurt more than anything else.

Judas had followed Jesus for years, sitting at the man's feet as the other lectured crowds—speaking of kindness towards other men, of faith and love. Of the fact that Yahweh treasured his people, and that they would be promised the kingdom forevermore. It was a message that he and the other disciples listened to greedily, eating every word—for too many years, too many generations, their people had been beaten down and trodden upon. The Empire's conquest was just one of many.

Sometimes, Judas could swear that he still felt the sting of the whip that his grandfather's grandfather had to suffer under while in Egypt, building the Pharaoh's temples and pyramids, worshipping the one true Lord in secret.

So much subjugation, so much torment. The world hated them, and despite the love that Jesus preached, Judas knew that he was starting to hate it in return. There was only so much cruelty that a person could allow himself to be treated to before a man finally broke beneath that particular yoke.

At times, a small kernel of resentment lodged itself deep and began to sprout during Jesus' teachings; this man had left his home, his people, for a large portion of his life to go East to learn the foundation of a faith that wasn't quite their own before bringing it back and speaking of it and showing others how their own faith had the chance to branch out—to learn that Yahweh was a loving Father, not always vengeful as the Torah always bespoke of him. That he was a Father who _felt_ for his children…

Ah, after so many years of being hated for what he was—a Jew—how could he do nothing less but crave hearing more of those words? That he was loved, that this man was Yahweh's own true Son, and that he loved them all. Love. An emotion that much of the world overlooked, but it was an emotion that Judas and the rest of his people had been parched of. Loved. They were loved. As so many had feared, they had not been forsaken. _They were loved_.

They were loved, and they had been promised a kingdom—a kingdom to which they could belong, a kingdom all their own. There would be no more wandering, no more searching for a home where they could stay. More so than a promise of an identity that linked itself to a country, it was the promise of the hearth that drew so many more in to listen to Jesus' words.

Manna from heaven, each and every syllable.

And yet…

And yet.

The doubts began to come one night when he had a visitor. The demon—for Judas knew that there was no earthly creature whose eyes glowed with the quiet remnants of a banked fire—sprawled easily over the window ledge of the room in the inn where they were lodging for the night There was a brief flash of silver, the devil's smile, and a quiet rumbling of contentment eased through the room when Judas closed the door behind himself.

"No threats of banishing me? Of calling your Lord?" the devil chuckled quietly, stretching in a seductive, lithe sort of way before once more leaning back to recline against the edge of the windowsill. Another bright flash, and Judas felt his belly tighten in what he believed was trepidation.

Still, though, he cleared his throat and glanced away from the fallen angel, heading towards the bed so that he might ready himself for the night. "What need have I of doing so? You will find no heart to sway within my breast."

"Ah, but it's not the heart that I'm after. It's the mind."

Judas scowled briefly at the creature, but then decided to ignore him; turning his back to the demon, he stripped down to his underthings and eased beneath the thin sheets. It wasn't much, but it was better than sleeping on the ground outside—and it had been gratifying, too, to watch as the innkeeper had greeted Jesus with tears in his eyes.

Undaunted by Judas' blatant refusal to listen to his words, the devil continued, words sibilant and purring quietly through the night. "I do have to admit myself surprised, however; surprised that you still continue to follow your Lord. After all, even a dolt would realize just how foolish—and futile, as well—it is to listen to the words of a leader who only speaks lies."

"How ironic that _those_ particular words are coming from _your_ mouth," Judas couldn't help but droll out into the darkness of the room before hunching his shoulders in an attempt to return to ignoring the creature at his back. It was difficult to do so, however, especially since the demon just chuckled at his chide and continued on, as blasé as ever:

"Oh, my brothers and I speak the truth—when it suits us, mortal." Judas could hear the demon shift, and he tensed as he prepared for the creature to lash out at his vulnerable back. No attack happened, though, and the words continued to slither their way through the silence of the night. "Now is such a time, as you might have expected. So why not answer my inquiry, man? Why do you follow a Lord who only speaks in riddles and lies to you and the other disciples?"

"There has never been any lies, not from Jesus," Judas snapped out at the creature before squinting his eyes shut and grabbing blindly at his sheet to draw it over his shoulders. Annoyed at the presence that remained in his room despite it all, he scooted closer towards the wall.

Another subdued laugh came after Judas' sharp reply, and the human man could hear the devil finally easing himself from his perch, footsteps tap-tap-tapping towards the door of the room. "Ah, yes. Your Lord _has_ lied to you. He has lied many, many times—and over a point that has always been so dear to you, my dear mortal. He has promised you a kingdom, has he not? A home. So where is it?"

Bile in his throat, Judas finally rolled over onto his opposite side so that he could face the creature as he banished it back to whatever slimy corner it had originally crawled from. An empty room greeted his angry gaze, however, and the bile lingered in his throat and mouth long after he had resettled to try and go to sleep.

The words of the devil echoed, as well, coiling deeper and deeper within his mind and coaxing fears and suspicions that Judas had tried his best to vanquish for the past year and a half. They were only suspicions, after all, and he was only mortal—faith would win out, and the promises that Yahweh offered to his people through Jesus' mouth were true enough.

…weren't they?

He did not sleep that night.

And it was the very next morning that Judas' suspicions reached a climax when Jesus gently took him aside, the look in his eyes as kind as ever. It was that look that soothed the suspicions, quietly banished them to the recesses of the other man's soul where all other human, _mortal_ doubts and fears resided—for a man was mortal and was weak, only striving through life with the help and guardianship of Yahweh and this, his Son. Man was flawed but this—this before him—was Perfection.

"What is it?" Judas asked, small smile quirking his lips as he reached out and lightly rested his hand upon his Lord's shoulder. A simple touch was more than enough to revive Judas when he was at his lowest, and light once more returned to his soul. How could he ever, _ever_ doubt this…? Jesus had never lied to him, and he would rise beyond the doubts that the devil had attempted to sow; here… ah, here was his people's future. Their Lord, their King. Their Leader of Men.

The other man's smile softened further, and Jesus reached up to cup a hand over Judas' cheek. "I need you to offer me up to High Priest Caiaphas," he murmured, pitching his voice so that the other disciples couldn't hear the blasphemous words that he was speaking. Judas' eyes widened in horror, and his breath hitched, caught in his throat. It was seeing that terror for him that Jesus finally took Judas in his arms, embracing him tight. "I need you to do this for me. You're the only one that I can trust. Please, Judas. For me. Do this for me. My Father has told me that for things to come to pass… I must die. And you are the only one who can do this for me."

The devil's words came to him.

"But… but what about the kingdom? Our people's kingdom?" Judas whispered, desperate to stave off this request, and he clutched tight at his Lord's arms—hold strong enough to leave behind bruises. But Jesus did not wince at the pain, just softly shook his head.

"Has always been the Kingdom of Heaven, Judas," came the bemused answer. "We've always been promised the Kingdom of Heaven—and my Father and I will reside over it and keep our people safe."

And the ground finally fell out from beneath Judas' feet as the man realized the meaning of the devil's words.

There was no home, no sense of belonging. His people would never have that hearth to return to—not even this Heavenly one, not with Original Sin from their forefathers keeping that gate closed to all who tried to enter into it. They—his people—were doomed to forever roam, in life and in death. There was no home, no true kingdom.

His eyes stung, and he blinked hard to keep himself from weeping at the revelation.

No home.

No Lord to shepherd the people in, no ruler to keep them safe. Forever at the mercy of others, forever exiled, forever enslaved and the prize of conquest. No home. _No home_. Everything that Judas had hoped for, had secretly prayed for in Jesus' arrival, in his preachings… everything came crumbling down, and the man felt his heart break asunder.

It was not with faith beating strong within his breast that Judas finally turned from Jesus, it was disillusionment—despair. It was not content with the knowledge that he was following his Lord's wishes that he requested an audience with Caiaphas. It was not with love that he accepted the thirty pieces of silver, not with pride of the trust offered to him that he promised to identify Jesus with a kiss.

He was betrayed.

Thus, he turned in kind into the Betrayer.

And it was with a cruel smile upon his lips that the devil watched as Jesus tilted his head to the sky and wept as he died a slow and painful death upon the cross, crying out as he neared his end, "Father! Father! _Why have you forsaken me?_"


	6. V

_Author's Note:_ I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! It was rather difficult for me to write; I've always loved reading the Gnostic Gospels—the _Gospel of Judas_ and the _Gospel of Mary Magdalene_ are both fascinating (and you should totally read them both if you want to get alternative views on some of the events that transpired in Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John)—and I had wanted to have a specific focus on IV. but wasn't sure that I was capable of doing so. I'm relieved, however, that it seems to have worked out well and that others have enjoyed it. Thank you! Furthermore, I also wanted to make a note that this contract is the one that is referenced in _Libera Nos A Malo_. Once again, there's no need to read that story to understand this one—more specifically, this chapter—but if you do so, certain interactions between Sebastian and Claude will come to light. Also, this chapter differs from previous ones in that this will be the shortest written, as well as told from first person point of view. I've always loved writing the crazies from first person, i.e. Yami no Malik from Yuugiou, and just wanted to let others know that the story will return to third person starting next chapter. Finally, a challenge: I make a reference to my favorite poem several times through this piece. If you are the first person who can correctly identify the poet and the poem, you may request a story from me. Good luck~

* * *

**V.**

The sky bled crimson, deep red like heart's blood, and the ashes fell like snow, coating the earth with destruction as far as the eye could see, and my people screamed and screamed and _screamed_ as the world burned as bright as the Christians' Hell. Heat all around, fire all around—opened my mouth and let the taste of despair linger upon my tongue. My Empire burned to the ground, but what care had I for it?

I had done my best to destroy it—

Had never wanted it in the first place.

I had created a war, killed thousands—perhaps millions—so that I could reach this point; I persecuted the Christians and fed them to the lions, sent them to their deaths against gladiators. I flooded the catacombs, flushed them out of their hiding places, forced them to renounce their One True God… all so that I could reach _this_ point. To see if they were correct in their ways or if the faith of my ancestors would be the one to survive.

Neither won.

Christians died as easily as Romans.

And, _oh_, how their screams made me shiver in delight.

Death—death to all. Death to the Empire; let me be remembered as the one who had brought to down to its knees, let them speak of the dichotomy of my rule in that I had intelligence and savvy in certain aspects—but here, now, the end result with utter annihilation. Never wanted to rule, had been forced into the role. I was revered as a god, the Emperor of Rome. At this end, however… Let me be feared as one for it is a god who has the power to give and take life.

I will take and take and take take _take_.

Bring the world crumbling down, bring the great cities to ruins for nothing mortal, nothing beside remains. Egypt had once been great; Egypt had fallen to Rome. Rome had once been great… but here, she burned with a passion that was only possible in a person's death throes. Death, the Empire was dead—and I was the only one to realize it.

My hands spread wide, arms encompassing the entirety of the inferno of my one-time city, and I laughed and laughed, the cackle of a crow's call echoing the husky tenor of my own. "Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!" I screamed to the skies, to the gods or God who might have been listening to my last act on earth, but it was only the creature behind me who responded to my words.

"If you had wanted your Empire to fall, there were easier ways of going about it," the Christian devil murmured aloud, the hellfire that normally glowed within the depths of his eyes muted with contemplation as he tilted his head to watch me with a lidded, veiled gaze. In the half-year that I had known the beast, I realized that I had finally found another who understood the depravities of the depths of my mind—the love of violence and corruption, the desire to see everyone around me fall. The joy that accompanied utter destruction. Here, there was a kindred spirit.

…but only to a certain extent.

Only, ever, t a certain extent.

I laughed once more, throat bared in a vulnerability that I knew that the devil would not yet take advantage of—we were conductors, he and I, and the music had not reached its needed climax, the crescendo that would bring all of these events to a close, to a peak, to a single point that cut sharply through life and death and time itself; however… it was not yet time for him to end this farce of a performance. With these thoughts: My smile became rictus, a skeletal parody of its usual finery. But what did it matter?

No; no matter.

No matter at all.

"Easier, yes," came my answer, the words breathless as they left the slight parting of my lips. "Easier—but so much less _satisfying_. Wit this, though… the Empire falls to wreck and ruin, half sunk within the sands of time—perhaps will be forgotten in the future; and I want its shattered visage to be all that remains." Annihilation. Complete and utter destruction, one that mirrored the incompleteness within me.

A mortal's inner self, the spirit that resided within a body and transcended all to be the driving force that sustained one's body and mind, everything that a mortal was at his or her inner core… supposedly the _truest_ part of him or her…

I was allowed to be born incomplete, the gods' best joke, was allowed to exist with a broken mind and a spirit that had been torn asunder early on in life. There had never been a person here, where I stand, just a shade that faded with the turning of the sun, with the slow procession of the years. I had died before I was ever given the chance to live. From the moment of my very first self-realization, I came to understand that I was not whole—had grown up with the knowledge, with the angst at knowing that I was always _less_ in other people's eyes. Why not return the favor; so why not make my people suffer the way that I had been forced to do so all of my life? I have been the living dead, and it was such a very simple thing to make my people _dead_. What animation now fueled their bodies?

None.

_None_, not any longer.

Lifeless corpses littered the streets, and the death count toll continued to rise higher and higher with each moment that passed and with each horrified discovery that the gates to the city had been sealed shut. There was no escape, had never been any escape—not from this, my naïve little lambs brought to the slaughter. Before… Oh. _Oh_, how they had cheered while their brothers and sisters were given over to the pit far beneath them in the giant Coliseum, and it was only fair that they now suffer through a small reflection of the torment that those same brothers and sisters despaired and died within.

Oh.

_Oh~_

Such was the power of a _god_.

"This cannot go on forever," the devil commented in answer, and I could hear him starting to walk towards the foyer that led back into the palace. I couldn't help but smile once again at that, knew that my dark eyes were darker yet at the sight that spread out before me—at the bone-deep _knowing_ that there would no longer be any attempt to sway me from my course; the creature finally realized just how impossible it was to do so, how futile it was to move me away from this one action that has ever been the only thing to bring joy in my life.

"This will go on for as long as I wish it to," I answered in return, eyes closing as a cinder floated through the air towards me; it landed high upon my cheek, sparking briefly to life as the flare of pain stung at my skin. I shuddered in ecstasy, fingers curling tighter upon the edge of the balcony that separated the palace from the death that stretched out below.

"You mortals never change; you lot are as foolish as ever," the devil snorted, and I jerked in surprise at the condensation that layered his voice and made it filled with scorn. Eyes wide at the criticism that had never come from him, my head turned to look at him.

There was no one there.

Heart clenching in sudden terror, I stepped away from the railing and towards the door that led back into the palace—perhaps the devil had returned inside without my hearing it. It was confusing, though, in that he would no longer want to watch the destruction of Rome with me, especially since he had known from the start that this had been my truest, most secret wish.

As my hand slipped away from the railing's edge, I felt a sharp prick of pain upon the top of my hand. Flinching at the unexpected sensation, I glanced down—only to see a fat, richly fed spider with legs wrapped possessively about my fingers. Disgust welled within me, and I made to lift a hand to crush it violently—

But then there was darkness.

And nothing else remained.


End file.
